


pâro

by WritingEverything



Series: happily every after, how could I ask for more? [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Anorexia, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eating Disorders, Gen, Hallucinations, Hopeful Ending, Purging, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Vomiting, another vent haha, haha wow why are there happy tags in this story, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25882834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingEverything/pseuds/WritingEverything
Summary: pâro: (n.) the feeling that no matter what you do is always somehow wrong.
Series: happily every after, how could I ask for more? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1878202
Comments: 2
Kudos: 109





	pâro

**Author's Note:**

> loosely connected to the previous story, _defiance._ sort of a sequel.
> 
> I never really mention the name of the person. if it's not specifically saying 'kageyama said' or 'hinata laughed' then it's the main person speaking. I realized it might be a bit hard to read this, so, yeah.

* * *

He doesn't go to the hospital.

He ~~begs~~ asks his mother not to send him, that he'll get 'better' on his own — whatever the hell that means. And his mother, always so kind and willing to bend back for others and not herself, reluctantly agrees. She doesn't fully let it go, as do most caring parents do, and he can feel the regret flowing off her in waves every morning.

The others look so pitiful when he shows up at the gym the next day.

Sugawara and Yamaguchi try to convince him to sit out whenever they can. Ukai, Shimizu, and Yachi's gazes are always digging into his back when he's on the court. Starting next week, Takeda brings in a box of food bars before every practice; he claims it's to make sure they have enough energy to last through the whole afternoon. There are only good intentions behind it, that much is certain.

He hates it.

He makes quick work of one food bar before they start playing. It's only so the others will stop staring at him. But it doesn't matter either way, because it feels like a ton of bricks in his stomach and it throws him off his game in every set.

He hates it. He hates it.

He makes a point to only eat one.

* * *

"Here, I bought a slice of strawberry shortcake!" Yamaguchi exclaims a little too brightly as he produces a small container from his bag. "I ran right after school to get it so I wouldn't be late for practice. Though, I guess it's probably not good to eat right before we play. Sorry, Tsukki, I didn't think of that!"

His stomach churns at the sight of it.

"You're not being very subtle," he bluntly points out.

And Yamaguchi just smiles.

"I know," he says. He offers the container in one hand and a spoon in the other. "Just eat some? A-At least a little bit."

The hole in his stomach digs itself deeper and deeper. He doesn't want to, not one bit, and in itself is concerning enough; he's being offered something that shouldn't make him so vehemently reject it, and yet, here he is.

The foreboding feeling doesn't go away, but he forces himself to poke at the shortcake, eat a bit until he finds the satisfaction on Yamaguchi's face, then offers him the rest.

On the way home, once he and Yamaguchi split off, he walks into the nearby park and stumbles behind the bush. He curls a hand around his stomach, and it rests in the deep concave between the curving end of his ribcage and the cutting edge of his hips. It's _burning_ for some reason — his stomach — and he just wants everything to stop for a bit.

He hates everything.

Some part of him wishes he could reach a hand down his throat, into his stomach, and claw out every bit of food. It desires that Yamaguchi would stop being such a generous and caring person. It wishes that people would just stop keeping track of him like he was some damaged machine, destined to break down at any moment.

He's not as strong as Hinata, but he is sturdy in his own way.

His face scrunches up, and he slips off his glasses as the tears start to well up in his eyes. He cries for a while before he heads home.

* * *

He starts getting tired all the time.

He can barely get through the volleyball practices anymore, can barely make it through the walk home. He usually doesn't have any homework since he finishes it all at school, either. So he starts to sleep right away when he gets home. 

On school days, he starts to sleep for eight to nine hours if he doesn't have work. On the weekends, he can blank out for around twelve. He starts going to bed earlier and waking up later. He feels like there are weights on his arms and legs, relentlessly pulling him down. He's tired when he wakes up. He's exhausted at lunch. He's tired at 4:00 in the afternoon when he's scrolling through his phone on social media.

His stomach growls.

He curls in on himself tighter, pulls the covers a little closer, foolishly thinking he'll be so small that when his mother checks the room, she won't be able to find him.

* * *

"Do you want some fries?" Kageyama asks one day, while they're out with the team on a bonding exercise (disgusting, if you asked him). If the blond wasn't so bewildered by the offer, he would've realized right away what he was doing.

"Why?"

Kageyama just tilts his package of fries towards him. "They're crispy," he says.

He arches an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Yamaguchi said you liked crispy fries."

He waits, motionless, as the younger boy grows considerably more and more frustrated.

"I'm trying to be _nice."  
_

He laughs, and that's the nail in the coffin.

"Hurry and take a fry before I _m_ _ake_ you," Kageyama finally snaps, the irritation on his face clear as day. And that, right there, is what he was looking for.

"Then make me," he challenges, smirking in a way that he knows is condescending to other people. "Are you gonna force-feed me now? Go ahead, I won't stop you."

For a split second, Kageyama jerks one foot forward, as though he fully intends on going through with the suggestion. But he snaps his head back, forcing himself to look away, to restrain himself.

On any other occasion, he would be impressed, because Kageyama is incapable of acting reasonably, no matter the situation. But this time, he just scoffs and rolls his eyes, and Kageyama looks back at him with a frown.

"They're just fries," the younger boy tries.

"And?" he shoots back. "I clearly don't want any. Or are you too socially-incompetent to realize that?"

It strikes deep, based on the hurt that briefly crosses Kageyama's face. Hinata glances over at them but doesn't call out.

"I'm . . . just trying to help," Kageyama forces out, awkwardly, further proving the point. He opens and closes his mouth a few more times, trying to find the right words. "Uh, you're really thin, and that's not healthy. It's affecting your speed and stamina, especially on the court. You're loosing the power in your legs when you jump to serve or block, and it hinders the other players — "

Something snaps.

"That's all you care about, _volleyball,"_ he sneers, and Kageyama jerks back, blinking owlishly. "That's what this is about, isn't it? You don't care about your teammates' wellbeing, just that they're healthy enough that it doesn't mess up your game."

"That's not — "

"As long as we can receive your toss, then that's all that matters, right?"

The anger slowly starts to filter onto Kageyama's face.

"Ah, I forgot, the King couldn't care less about the _peasants_ beneath him — "

Kageyama immediately reacts. Badly.

The younger boy grabs at his jacket and shoves him backwards until he's stumbling. His face is the epitome of pure rage, eyes shining deep with fury, and the blond waits for the punch, the impact of a fist against the side of his face.

There's Hinata at Kageyama's side, trying to pull them apart, and somebody is shouting at them to stop. This issue should've been resolved a long time ago, the nickname no longer an insult but a compliment, but it seems that some scars run too deep.

Slowly but surely, Kageyama's grip weakens, and Hinata instantly tugs the younger boy away. Sugawara runs over, asking if everyone's okay.

He scoffs. He grabs his bag, throwing it over his shoulders, then turns off without another word. Yamaguchi runs to his side, and together, they head back home in silence.

* * *

He tries vomiting only once.

It was later that day when he decided to. After his conversation with Kageyama, if you could even call it that, the sickening feeling in his stomach wouldn't go away. The constant pounding in his head grew louder and louder, banging against his skull until all other noise was drowned out. It gets worse when he checks his phones; loads of messages from his teammates bombard the screen. There are unoriginal concerns such as checking to make sure he got home alright, and more concerning ones such as reminders making sure he eats. He wonders at what point the others decided to throw subtlety out the window.

His mother is watching television downstairs. He turns on the fan in the bathroom on the second floor, hopes that maybe she won't hear it. He kneels in front of the toilet, sees his reflection staring back up at him in the water, and braces himself. He shakes as he places his forefinger and middle finger in his mouth, slowly inching them towards the back. He presses down on a delicate spot in the back of his throat and jerks, involuntarily gagging. He does it again, and again, and again until he can feel the contents of his stomach climbing up his esophagus.

He leans over the toilet and vomits.

It burns. 

The stomach acids and half-digested foods spill out of his mouth, pouring into the toilet. It makes a splash against the water, and part of it hits his face. He keeps going, forces himself to wretch and heave and gag until it feels like there's nothing left. 

It's a horrible experience.

He leans back on his knees, carefully cradling his vomit-covered fingers and the puke that's slowly sliding down his cheek.

He's crying. He can't see all the well, and now with his glasses gone and his vision even more blurred than before, it's almost like he's blind. He wonders if that would be better, stripped of his vision so he can no longer see the disappointment that he is.

He moves to the sink and rinses it off. It feels like his sins are washing away with it.

It was a good experience for him. Now, if he ever decides to try it again, he knows what he's getting into. 

But he decides this will be the last time.

One, his throat hurts. Two, his breath is foul, even he can smell it, and he doesn't think brushing his teeth once will get rid of the horrid smell. And three, it's _loud._ If his mother ever decided to walk up while he was in the middle of doing it, there's no doubt she'd hear. And she'll know.

It's enough to convince himself.

But even as he brushes his teeth a couple times and washes up, he can't deny he feels lighter. A corrupted perception of happiness.

 _This is dangerous,_ something tells him. It sounds suspiciously like Yamaguchi.

He ignores it.

* * *

He tries a few other methods of vomiting — ones that don't involve sticking his fingers down his throat — and they provide little to no results. Maybe he's not trying hard enough.

~~Maybe he's just afraid.~~

* * *

Azumane catches him the next time he faints.

He wakes up in the equipment room, bleary eyes slowly opening. One of the volleyball poles is lying a few feet away from him, and he idly remembers that he was supposed to put it away.

Azumane is kneeling beside him. 

The third-year is gently cradling his body and shaking. He's crying, and if the situation wasn't awkward enough, the blond would make a crude joke.

"Er, you're getting my shirt wet," he says instead, but Azumane doesn't let go. "Sorry, are you okay?"

Azumane chokes out what sounds like a laugh, but there's a touch of terror in it. "Am _I_ okay? Tsukishima, you just collapsed. I-I barely caught you in time. You're so _light._ " His hands move, brushing against the blond's ribcage, fingers fitting into the dips between his ribs.

He pushes Azumane away, suddenly unable to breathe.

"Sorry for causing trouble," he mutters, fighting to urge to run, to hide. He reaches out towards the volleyball pole again. "I'll finish closing up."

Azumane grabs him, and his hand seems so big against the pale, thin bone that makes up his wrist.

"Tsukishima, please talk to us," the third-year pleads, looking so distressed. "You need to get this checked out."

"Sure," he says.

"This isn't healthy."

"I know."

"I — sometimes, on the weekend, I talk to people who help me with my anxiety. It's not the same, but I'm sure there are people who can help you with your, uh . . . y'know."

He nods, unheeding, and yet some separate part of him is filing that information away, cataloging it somewhere deep in his mind for later.

"Will you think about it?"

"I'll try," he says, and the words taste like ashes on his tongue.

* * *

He tells the team he eats dinner with his mother.

When he gets home, he tells his mother that Takeda brought in rice balls after practice, since it was the last day of the week.

It's a lie that can be easily exposed, but nobody asks any questions.

The next week, he meets up with Yamaguchi in the morning to walk to school. The smaller boy is clutching his phone, biting his lip harshly, looking like he's trying not to cry.

It's silent the whole walk. Things are tense that day.

* * *

"Tsukishima, why don't you eat?"

"Unlike you, not everyone can eat a day's worth of food in one sitting," he replies matter-of-factly, and Hinata huffs.

"I don't eat _that_ much!" he cries out, piqued, the perfect picture of an immature child. But in a flash, his eyes are unclouded and determined, a gaze so foreign that it seems like he's older than he really is. "But really, why don't you eat?"

"When did you become so straightforward?" he huffs. "It's annoying."

"If I don't say it outright, you'll find some way to avoid it," Hinata points out.

He shrugs. The smaller boy does have a point.

"Can you tell me then?" Hinata asks.

"Do I really need to explain myself to the likes of you?" he groans. "I don't suppose I can do something just because I want to?"

"I think everyone has a reason for doing what they do, no matter how insignificant," Hinata says. "So, you're saying you do it because you want to?"

He shrugs.

Hinata considers this.

"Do you ever _want_ to get _better_ then?" the smaller boy then asks. "Instead of — well, instead of hurting yourself."

He shrugs again, but slower this time around.

"We all want you to get better, Tsukishima. We're worried."

"I know."

"Not as your teammates, but as your friends."

Azumane and Yamaguchi's faces flash through his mind. So sudden that it feels like a slap to the face, so real that he almost flinches back. He doesn't know why, but it does.

"Tsukishima?"

"Did Yamaguchi put you up to this?"

Hinata shakes his head.

In the distance, the sun is setting, bathing the area in a warm, orange glow. It's the end of the day and a promise for another one.

Hinata offers one of his meat buns and the blond declines. Hinata doesn't push it.

* * *

_"Tsukki?"_

He mutters a quiet hello. On the other end of the phone, Kuroo makes a questioning noise, most likely wondering why the younger boy was calling at such an ungodly hour. His gaze drifts over to his nightstand, where an alarm clock sits. It reads 2:56 AM.

_"Tsukki, you there?"_

"Do you think I'm selfish, Kuroo-san?"

Silence is what greets him on the other end. Yet there's some comfort in that, as though there's nobody on the other side to judge him for the venom that spills from his mouth.

"I don't believe I'm sad," he goes on, not filled with new-found confidence but something else that pushes him to speak. "I think I just want to hurt, and that's . . . different. Does that sound odd?

"I have everything I could ask for. Good grades, a loving family, stupid teammates who push me to do better, even though there's really no choice.

"So why do I feel so bad?"

His chest hurts. His head is spinning. He wants to cry.

"Perhaps I just want to hurt myself. Maybe this is my punishment, inflicted by my own self to spare the rest of the world the trouble. Karma, or something like that, right?

"Or maybe I'm just seeking attention. Ironic, is it not? Justifying my actions, even when others claim it's harmful, when in reality, I'm just doing it and searching for their concern? Or maybe I'm insane."

". . ."

"Do you think I'm selfish, Kuroo-san?"

For trying to confine in Kuroo, when Yamaguchi is already there, along with Azumane, and Hinata, and Kageyama, and his other teammates, offering their full support with open arms? He's turning to a stranger for help, and essentially ignoring the aid that's already been offered to him.

He's always known he was selfish, always known that he had taken Yamaguchi and the others for granted. But then he imagines their expressions, the disappointment that twists their faces so harshly until they're unrecognizable, and he decides that he can't do that to them. Perhaps it's selfishness speaking, perhaps a warped sense of selflessness, but he doesn't care enough to differentiate the two at this point.

The phone is silent. He pulls the device away from his ear. He stares at the screen, scanning over the call history, and realizes that the last call he made was yesterday afternoon.

* * *

It becomes a daily occurance. He locks himself up in his room, waits until it’s the middle of the night until he knows for sure his mother is asleep, and then he stares at his phone screen, attempting to muster courage when there is none.

He talks with Akaashi when he needs the truth spoken to him, staightforward and blunt. It helps when he can’t differentiate between the screaming voices in his head, when he needs something to ground himself back in reality. He talks with Bokuto when he wants to lose himself to the rushing tide in his mind, to lose all [inhibitions] in an attempt to convince himself otherwise of what he already believes. The third-year talks and talks, sometimes honest and kind, sometimes harsh but also determined. And he talks with Kuroo when he doesn’t want anyone to judge him, when he just needs to get everything out of his system before it destroys him from the inside out.

(He doesn’t actually call them, doesn’t actually hear their voices. He can’t bring himself to swipe to their contacts, to burden them with his maddening spiel when they aren’t even involved whatsoever. But he wants to talk, _needs_ to, or else he’s afraid he might go completely insane. Maybe he’s desperate for someone to listen, to understand what’s going in behind the complex machine that is his mind. So he turns to this instead, to voices that don’t exist in hopes it can soothe the emptiness in his chest when others can’t.)

He doesn’t even understand it himself. He’s tired of facing his teammayes everyday, of being unable to get them to comprehend it themselves. But at the same time, the thought of expressing this mess is so painful. Because really, what would he even say? What would he even do?

And yet he feels warm when he thinks about his mother’s hopeful smile whenever he joins her at the table, about Azumane’s advice, about Yamaguchi’s unwavering attempts to get him to eat, about Hinata and Kageyama’s lame (but firm) attempts to help. 

He doesn’t know anything anymore. 

He doesn’t know.

~~Somebody help him, please.~~

* * *

He tries to eat on his own. 

He really tries, he swears.

~~He doesn't know why he's trying, but he is, and it's the thought that matters most or whatever, right?~~

One night, his mom prepares a plate of rice with a balance of meat and vegetables. When she realizes he isn't coming out, she leaves the food outside his room, on the side of his door. He's tempted to let the food sit there for the rest of the night, but he forces himself to move, to open the door, to pick up the plate. Even as his legs shake and his hands tremble, he carries the food back to his desk.

He stares at it for a while. If his mother walked in and saw him like this, sitting there and just staring at his food, she'd probably send him to the hospital just for that. By the time he picks up the fork, the food is already cold.

He tries to eat it anyway.

~~Maybe the first thing he voluntarily eats shouldn't be cold. But it's already hard enough for him to _know_ that he's about to eat; he doesn't think he can make it all downstairs to heat it up. ~~

Calmly, he pokes at the meat with his fork and pops it into his mouth.

It tastes like ashes on his tongue.

The texture immediately pops out, disgusting and repulsive in his mouth. His taste buds reel back, even though they should be used to such a familiar food. They send a signal to his brain, telling him that he should spit it out right away. He can feel the urge to vomit sitting at the back of his throat, waiting. He has to cover his nose just so he can force that single piece of meat down.

When did he become such a picky eater?

When did food start tasting so horrid to him?

It goes on like this for a while longer, until he can't take it. He finishes about a third of the plate, mostly just the rice and a bit of the vegetable. By then, his stomach is hurting, curling in on itself, and he can feel the bile rising in his throat. He manages to keep it all down for about half an hour before he's rushing for the bathroom.

The next morning, his mother is waiting for him at the table. If his mother noticed anything last night, she certainly doesn't say anything about it. He wonders what pushes people to silence like this, and what eventually pushes them over the edge.

He's surprised to find only a few pancakes on his plate. And for some reason, that hurts.

* * *

"You're too nice to me," he says one day. It comes out quiet, barely above a whisper, but Yamaguchi hears it anyway.

"Well, we're friends, aren't we?" the other boy states, but the way his voice lifts at the end reveals that little uncertainty.

"Yeah," he replies, soothing that doubt.

"Then what are you asking for?" Yamaguchi asks, chuckling quietly like that's the only explanation that's needed. 

He shrugs.

The younger boy glances away. "I mean, you would do the same for me, wouldn't you?" He doesn't say it explicitly, but they both know what he's referring to.

_Would I?_

~~Without a doubt, he would.~~

"Sure," he agrees, even when he doesn't know himself.

* * *

One day, he's on the bench the whole practice.

He's worn out from his classes, but he's sure his face is unchanged from its usual indifferent expression. Yet when he walks into the gym, already changed, they seem to know that he doesn't have enough energy to spare. That he didn't eat enough to muster that vitality.

It's either Ukai and Takeda are honing their senses, or they've been communicating with his mother behind his back, just like Yamaguchi did (or still does).

He could care less. He'll be asked to leave soon enough, anyway. It's almost laughable, the way they're all so desperately fighting to keep him in the club without pushing him over the line at the same time.

Honestly, he doesn't even know why he's not kicked off the team yet. He wonders why they're trying so hard, because really, it's just a club. An after school activity that pales in comparison to other things.

Midway through the second set of the practice matches, Sugawara is switched with Kageyama, and he comes over and plops down beside him.

"Ah, I wish I could play more often," the third-year complains as he stretches out his legs, but there are no ill-intentions behind his words. "Though, I guess it's fun when you're both striving for the same role."

"Why not ask the King to switch with you?"

Sugawara laughs. "Then what's the point of improving yourself, if you're just going to freely give the position to someone else?"

He shrugs.

The third-year regards him once. "You're not playing today?"

"If I was, then I wouldn't be on the bench," he points out.

Another laugh. "Right, that's true."

They watch as Kageyama tosses the ball over to Hinata. Another accurate timing, another perfect angle, and the ball swiftly smacks down on the other side of the court, evading Tanaka and Ennoshita's attempts to save it.

"If only you were on the court," Sugawara says, "then 3 vs. 3 would be easier. Hinata is a hard opponent with his jumps, but with you playing, there's a better chance at blocking him."

"You might have to wait for a little longer," he says. "I think I might be coming down with something."

"Oh, you're sick?" The older boy places a hand on his head before he can protest. "Hm, you do feel warm. What have you been eating?"

_Nothing._

He doesn't say out loud, of course. But the way Sugawara looks at him, he almost wonders if he did.

"Eat up soon and rest so you can join us, okay?" Sugawara says softly.

He pats the blond on the shoulder, and stops. The third-year rests his hand on him, feeling the stiff shoulder blades, the stark edges that were hiding under the volleyball jacket.

He feels ashamed.

When practice is over, he catches Sugawara talking with Sawamura, Ukai, and Takeda. 

He takes a cold shower that night.

* * *

He cries sometimes. Is that weird? He doesn't know if that's a side effect of starving yourself, or if he's just so mentally drained all the time that he can't keep it in any longer. Whatever the reason, he finds himself breaking down.

In the shower, doing his homework, lying down in bed and getting ready to sleep — the pain and guilt and shame hit him like a train. Then he's crying so hard that he can't breathe properly. In a second, the self-hatred hits him so hard that he forgets what it's like to love someone so much.

He knows that he shouldn't keep quiet, that if his mother heard him crying and came running in, there would be no more excuses. She'd urge him to seek help.

He plants his hands over his mouth anyway, a futile attempt at silencing himself.

* * *

He wakes up sick the next morning.

He doesn't get out of bed for at least ten minutes. It's painful to move, and he lazily grabs his water bottle on the nightstand in an attempt to clear his dry throat.

But still, he drags himself out of bed. Forces himself to change. He's in a daze the whole the time, from walking downstairs to passing the breakfast table and heading straight towards the front door. His mother isn't in the kitchen.

He leaves the house in a daze.

He doesn't know how he makes it all the way to school. He's floating, somewhere out of his body. It's like he's watching himself from the perspective of a bystander, as he turns all the right corners and comes upon the school in the distance.

School passes by in a blur. He used to have a razor-sharp mind, able to balance multiple things on the side while still maintaining good grades. But now, focusing seems impossible. The teachers are talking, but the words are slipping through his head like sand sliding through your hand. The teacher asks him a question, and he says he doesn't know the answer.

Yamaguchi is in the corner of his eye, watching him.

* * *

He collapses in the clubroom, bony knees clanking harshly against the floor as he goes down, and Yamaguchi is there to catch him. Hinata, Kageyama, and Yachi are there, too. It's funny, he muses to himself, that all the first-years are the ones to find him in such a state. In a flash, they're all crowding around him (most of them, except Kageyama). Yamaguchi pushes them away to give him space.

"You're too nice to me," he tells Yamaguchi again, but this time he's addressing the others, too.

"Haven't we already talked about this?" the smaller boy laughs, grinning shakily, a vain attempt at feigning normality.

"You're too nice to me," he repeats, and Yamaguchi's smile drops. "I don't get it."

"Tsukishima?" Hinata says.

"Aren't you guys disgusted?" he asks. "Don't you want to put me in the hospital already?"

"You're not disgusting!" Yachi cries out, then blushes at the volume she raised her voice to.

Hinata nods, agreeing. "You're amazing, Tsukishima! You're smart, and you're tall — " Kageyama smacks him for that, " — and you have really impressive senses in every situation!"

He scoffs. "You're terrible at lying." He gestures to himself, the near definition of a walking skeleton. "You think I'm amazing when I'm — like this?"

"You're amazing, no matter what you look like, Tsukki," Yamaguchi says firmly. "But when you're like this, it's — "

"Dangerous," Kageyama finishes.

Yamaguchi nods. "Yeah, that."

He pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, burying his face against his knees. The sound when he knocks his head against his kneecaps is almost audible to the others. He mutters something under his breath.

"Tsukki?"

"Why am I like this?" he says, then sniffs.

Yamaguchi nearly jumps, then gently grabs one of his hands.

"It was fine at first. It felt _good,"_ he says, the words just flowing out of his mouth, out of his control. But the relief that follows them is euphoric. "I thought that it made me happy, or something stupid like that."

Yachi leans forward. "But?"

"But now everything is different," he goes on. "I don't know. I can't concentrate in class. I can't concentrate at _all._ Maybe — maybe I thought that if I couldn't focus on anything, I wouldn't have to worry, either.

"But I'm just down now, all the time. And everything _hurts_ now," he says. "I wanted to get rid of that feeling — the one that makes me want to crawl into a hole and disappear. And it was working for a while. Now it's not. Now it just hurts."

Silence.

"I don't know why I'm like this," he says, barking out a laugh, just a touch of hysteria in it. "I really don't know. I just don't see the point in anything anymore."

Yamaguchi's hand, still linked with his, is shaking; the smaller boy must be crying. Hinata and Yachi look close to tears. Kageyama's eyes are narrowed in concentration.

"You," Hinata starts, voice thick with so many emotions he can't name, "you need to get better."

"I heard after you lose 40% of your body weight, death is almost inevitable," Yachi says next. "I-I, um, I did some research, and it may not be accurate now that I think about it, but still."

"You're killing yourself," Yamaguchi says. "Tsukki, can you tell us? Why are you doing this to yourself?"

He curls a hand around his stomach, no longer able to ignore the signals it's sending; the dizziness, fatigue, vertigo.

"I don't know," he croaks out.

Yamaguchi squeezes his hand tighter.

"I'm just selfish. I don't want to die. I don't know what I want anymore."

Yachi sobs. Hinata moves to hug him.

"I don't want to die," he repeats. "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." It's his mantra now. "I thought I knew what I was doing, but I don't. I just want everything to stop."

He breaks. He cries.

He doesn't know how long it is before he pushes at Hinata's shoulder with his free hand, and the orange-haired boy pulls away.

"Do you _want_ to get _better?"_ Hinata asks. It's an echo of their conversation a week before.

He shrugs, unable to find his voice.

"I have some Fugashi," Yachi says quietly. "I bought it on the way here, and if you want, you can have some?" Then she frowns. "But that won't be enough. We . . . we have to get you to the hospital."

His body stiffens.

"We'll be with you the entire time!" Hinata quickly exclaims, a little too loudly, and Kageyama shushes him. "Well, maybe not _all_ the time, but we'll visit and stay with you until you get better!"

 _'And if I say no?'_ he thinks but doesn't say.

"Please, Tsukki," Yamaguchi whispers, breaking his silence. "It's so scary seeing you like this. Sometimes I think you're just gonna drop dead in the middle of class, and I can't take it. Please, _please_ consider."

He pauses. "But the match coming up — "

"We can deal with that later," Yachi says firmly.

He peeks over at Kageyama. The younger boy looks confused, rightfully so, because he has a hard time understanding others. Part of him is probably irked; his whole world revolves around volleyball, and hearing them so casually throwing aside their upcoming game must be hard.

But his face is scrunched up in concentration, as though he's actually trying to comprehend everything. Like he's actually considering their decision.

"We'll let the others handle everything," Hinata says. "They can survive without us for a while."

It sounds like a lie, but he nods anyway, feeling dumbfounded.

"I'll, uh, call the hospital," Kageyama mutters, looking down at his feet as he stands up.

"Do you trust us?" Yamaguchi asks.

Tsukishima swallows thickly, mouth suddenly dry.

"Sure," he says, "I do. I'll go."

It doesn't feel quite like a breath of fresh air, that freedom he was so desperately searching for, but it's a start.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> woo. never been to the hospital before, so that part's not written in. if I ever go, I'll probably write another story for it. I'm just a little down right now, so this is how I cope lol. hard to write my other stories that involve fluff and shit when you feel like crap haha. this is kinda all over the place, because I'm kinda all over the place, so yeah.
> 
> sorta a happy ending. tsukishima's gonna get better, but like, nothing is set in stone. hence the 'ambiguous/open ending' tag and the 'hopeful ending' tag. maybe we just both need that happy ending.
> 
> woo, hope you enjoyed and stuff.
> 
> extra notes:  
> \- IMPORTANT: if you're sad and shit and need someone to talk to, hit me up. I realize that writing and sharing this may be damaging to other people also going through similar things, so if you need to chat, I'm here. here's my discord: RyanEverything#7014
> 
> \- cool. hope you enjoyed. see y'all later.


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